The Power of the Grave
by Hoshi-tachi
Summary: AU First year. Harry wasn't an only child, but had an identical twin, who died at birth. He's been hanging around ever since.
1. Prologue

Title: The Power of the Grave

Author: hoshi-tachi

Category: AU Harry Potter 

Rating: PG-13

Summary: In the wizarding world, twins are connected by more than just birthdays and looks. They are bound by magic, by Life itself into an inseparable whole. Where one twin goes, the other follows, even into Death… especially into Death. But what happens when they decide not to leave after all?

Warnings: Swearing, mild child abuse (of course)… maybe more later. We'll see.

Disclaimer: I, hoshi-tachi, being of sound… /winces/ never mind. Let's just say I don't own Harry Potter and leave it at that, shall we?

* * *

The woman was screaming.

She arched her back in agony, throat raw from both the screaming and the never-ending stream of curses she called down on the man who had done this to her.

"James, you bastard, you are so fucking _dead_…"

Her husband hovered nervously nearby, not daring to touch anything after the mediwitch had swatted him aside for trying to help. Honestly, how was he supposed to know the thing was combustible, anyway? "C'mon, Lily, you can't really blame _me_… can you?"

"You better believe you damn well can, you little-" Lily broke off into a strangled gasp as another contraction hit, her knuckles glowing white where they grasped the sweaty sheets. The redhead's next words came out plaintively. _"James…"_

James moved forward, ignoring the mediwitch's disapproving glare. Grabbing his wife's hand and concealing a wince of discomfort at the crushing pressure, he leaned down. "Don't worry, love, it's almost over…"

It was another hour of screams and winces before the mediwitch straightened up with a tiny bundle in her arms. Starting up hopefully, the wizard stilled as he saw the look on her face. "No… Merlin, no."

She flinched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. I… I don't know what went wrong…" Shoulders slumped, the mediwitch turned and deposited her motionless burden into another nurse's arms.

James sat staring at his stillborn son, the child who would have been his first-born, his heir… little James Jr. So many futures, hopes, dreams… all gone in an instant, like a wisp of smoke. "And Harry… what about Harry?" the Auror whispered desperately, grabbing on to the nurse's sleeve.

She shook her head helplessly, bending back down to her patient. "I'm sorry, sir, but… you know one twin doesn't survive the other…"

Shell-shocked, the father-that-was turned back to his wife, whose emerald eyes already wept for her lost children. James was almost surprised to see a single tear drop from his own eye, landing on their clasped hands. He hadn't thought you cried until _after_ you came out of shock.

"Alright, _push_," the mediwitch crooned, hands out to receive the second child's body. As the baby slid cleanly out, her eyes widened, and she gasped.

The heads of the grieving parents jerked up as the last sound they had expected to hear rang defiantly through the room.

The lusty wail of a healthy, newborn boy.

* * *

A/N: This is just an odd little plot bunny that hopped into my mind one day while listening to my friend expound on Yu-Gi-Oh!. Don't ask me how it got to be a Harry Potter fic instead, cuz I don't really know myself.

Kou: I thought it was how disappointed you were with the Prophecy?

Oh, right! You see, the way I see it, a lot of the fics written after the fifth book came out are making it out that the only reason Harry banished Voldie, and survived all the subsequent encounters with him, was because a mentally-unstable Divinations professor made a Prophecy about him. Prophecies aren't a means to an end- you don't become all-powerful just because one happens to be about you. They're a _guide_, even if they are self-fulfilling half the time, and the rest so cryptic you don't understand them 'til it's too late.

/stops to catch her breath/ In any case, Neville couldn't have been the one, because the power had to have been in _Harry_. If Voldie had decided to go after Neville, the power _still_ would have been in Harry. Except then you run into the Prophecy stating that Voldie would mark the one with the power, so he _couldn't_ have marked anyone but Harry… I just succeeded in confusing myself.

Kou: You aren't the only one…

/sighs/ Oh, shut up… Anyway, I decided to make it so Harry was _already_ the Boy-Who-Lived, even if it wasn't for what everyone thought. Just to make it simpler.

Kou: And if anyone manages to figure out that mess, feel free to explain it to me.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary, Warnings, and Disclaimer**: Okay, just what makes you people think I own Harry Potter, anyway? Do I look like Rowling?

* * *

_Every now and then  
We find a special friend  
Who never lets us down  
Who understands it all  
Reaches out each time you fall  
You're the best friend that I've found_

_I know you can't stay  
But a part of you will never ever go away_

_**-Jordan Hill, "Remember Me This Way"**_

* * *

_(Almost eleven years later)_

* * *

"Boy! Get your ass out here!" 

Groaning, Harry sat up, waving the dust out of his face as Dudley began his morning ritual of jumping up and down on the stairs above his head. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," he called, still half-asleep.

The ten-year-old yawned and stretched as far as the small cupboard would allow. He threw off his thin blanket as the cupboard door flew open, and his uncle shoved his puce-colored face inside. "Still in bed, you lazy little worm? Dudley needs his breakfast! Now!"

Harry winced as he was pulled roughly through the door, knowing there would be bruises later from Vernon's grip. Shaking him off, the boy went in to the kitchen and started pulling out everything he would need to make breakfast. As he fried the bacon, the rest of his dysfunctional little family trundled in, sending their relative contemptuous glances.

Harry himself nearly laughed. As if he was the one who deserved contempt, when he was the only person in the house who looked like an actual human being! Between Vernon's close resemblance to a bear, Aunt Petunia's imitation of a stork, and Dudley's successful attempt to emulate a pig in both appearance and personality, being a scrawny, half-blind kid felt downright normal.

"Oi, freak!"

The green-eyed boy jumped as Dudley snuck up behind him and yelled in his ear, biting his lip in pain as some of the hot grease in the pan decided to splash on him. Cursing mentally, since doing out loud would be inviting a cuff around the ears from his uncle, Harry set the pan carefully back on the burner. The boy ignored his cousin's loud guffaws as he turned on the sink and ran his stinging arm under the cool water.

And to think, this was actually a good day so far.

The last good day, for a long while. Today, the last day of the school year, had come all too soon for his liking. Harry didn't even want to think about what the summer would be like, when he had to spend the entire day around the Dursleys.

At least next year he'd finally be rid of that giant porker still sniggering behind him. Dudley had been accepted into his father's old private academy after some strings were pulled, while Harry was headed off to the local school, Stonewall High. And it could have been worse, he told himself. He could be going to that other school instead, the one Uncle Vernon had threatened him with, the one for incurably criminal boys.

Speaking of whom, shouldn't his uncle be yelling at him right about…

"Boy! Give my Dudley his breakfast and go get ready for school. You're enough of a disgrace as it is without turning up looking like that."

Harry winced as he mentally congratulated himself on his perfect timing. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," he called back, ladling the bacon onto a plate. Careful no one was watching, he slipped a piece into his sleeve for breakfast later on.

Soon after, he was leaning inside his cupboard, pulling out his usual oversized, hand-me-down clothes and eating the slice of bacon while he couldn't be caught.

* * *

A few minutes later the boy was again doing his best not to cry out in pain. It was rather difficult, though, since Aunt Petunia just happened to be grasping him by the arm in the exact same place that Dudley had spilled blisteringly hot grease on. The woman dragged him out the front door, looking both ways to make sure the neighbors weren't watching. Seeing that the coast was clear, she propelled him forward with a quick push. 

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she shrilled, opening the car's passenger door for his fat behemoth of a cousin. "Get walking already! And don't you dare be late!" She gestured to the sidewalk.  
Unsurprised, Harry just nodded wearily, and took off on the two-mile hike to school as his aunt drove Dudley to school.

* * *

He watched the familiar cracks in the sidewalk travel past his feet. He knew each and every one of them- how this one split in two, and headed off to the north, the place were someone had once dropped something heavy, and smashed the concrete into something that looked awfully close to Uncle Vernon's face when he was truly angry. 

But then, he should know them. After all, Harry'd been walking this route since he first started primary school, while Dudley was always driven by either Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon. The ten-year-old smirked sardonically. Honestly, it was no surprise that the boy was so fat. It certainly wasn't like his parents ever let him get any exercise.

No wonder that Harry was so thin, either, come to think of it. Between the four mile walk every day to and from school, and the Harry Hunting before, during, and after, there was no way any food could possibly stay on his bones…

He shook his head, driving the half-bitter thoughts from his mind. There was no point in thinking about it, really. Harry could never escape the Dursleys, not until he reached his majority, at least. His family always took great joy in telling him there was no one else who would take him in; that all of his father's family was dead with the man, and no one on their side of the family would ever want him. And while Harry knew the Dursleys hated him, and often lied to him and others, he could hear the ring of truth in those words.

Hell, he'd even considered trying to get sent to an orphanage, like his uncle had so often threatened to do. But who'd adopt someone who's own family told everyone in earshot a criminal in the making and hopelessly disturbed?

"Moping again, are we?" Harry looked up at the mocking, yet friendly words, and smiled.

"Oh, just a little," he answered sarcastically. "After this I'm condemned to another summer with the folks, remember? What could I possibly have to despair over?"

The other snorted, running a hand through his messy hair. "Depends on your point of view, I suppose… After all, you're the one who likes school."

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. "How could you possibly know whether you like school or not? You never stick around long enough during the classes to find out."

Across the street, an elderly couple gave him odd looks and hurried their grandchildren into the house. Harry's lips quirked dryly, but he wasn't angry. He was used to it. And it wasn't like they didn't have reason.

This time the other, nearly identical boy laughed. Through his transparent body, Harry could see the school approaching in the distance. "Depends on how you look at it, I s'pose…" James said easily, colorless eyes wide and innocent.

The green-eyed boy shook his head fondly, staring at his brother. How could he possibly fault the regular people for thinking he was crazy, when he really was?

After all, how many people could see ghosts?

* * *

A/N: /sighs/ You know, this is probably the shortest HP chapter I've ever written... Ah, well. I've had about half of this sitting around for ages, and since I can't seem to get anything done on Strains of Melody, I decided to just finish it. Hope y'all like it.

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_**Review Responses**_

_Our thanks to_: **Amber**, **gaul1**, **Gia**, **Mithros**, and **Spezlee**.

**Akua**: /sighs/ Yes, I am planning on continuing Storm Child. Hell, I even have most of the next chapter done, I just can't seem to get that last little bit out.

**borne-shadow-childe**: /grins/ It was the picture of James haunting Hogwarts that actually prompted my writing this. Poor Harry, never being able to get any work done because his twin keeps distracting him during classes... /smirks/ The perfect excuse...

**Lady Selenity**: You have my belated sympathies. /winces/ My very belated sympathies.

* * *

This has been done for a couple days, actually, but since ffnet wouldn't let me update 'til now... well, here ya are anyway. It's also my first attempt at updating with WordPad instead of Word, so please excuse any formatting irregularities until I have a chance to fix them. Enjoy, and Happy Belated Thanksgivings! 

27 November 2004


	3. Chapter Two

**Warnings and Disclaimers:** Some direct quotes from the books, some not-so-direct quotes, and some stuff I just plain made up.

* * *

"But there's only thirty-six!" 

Harry winced as Dudley's face began to turn red. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon seemed to sense the impending tantrum as well, and his aunt quickly took evasive action. "No, no, sweetums. You missed one, see? Under this big one from Mummy and Daddy."

His cousin stared at the package for a few seconds, recalculating. "But... but that's still only thirty-seven!" he protested. "That's one less than last year!"

Harry put Dudley's breakfast on the table, trying desperately to hold in a snort of disgust. Considering the best present he'd ever gotten from his "family" was an old pair of socks, it was utterly rich that the fat tub of lard would complain over getting_ only_ thirty-seven presents.

Behind him, someone else snorted, and he nearly jumped. As he moved away from the table, Harry threw a glare at his brother, who was watching the proceedings not only with disgust, but with anger.

"We need to get away from these people, Harry," he said, gesturing towards the other three. "It's not right. I've been in some of the other homes around here. _No one_ gets treated like you do. It's not _right_."

"And where else would I go?" Harry murmured back, fairly sure his family wouldn't hear him over their negotiations with Dudley. Not that it would really matter- they, too, subscribed to the theory that he was out of his gourd. "Find me one person who cares, and I'll be out of here so fast their heads will spin."

After a moment James looked away, and Harry nodded in resignation. Getting away from the Dursleys would only ever be a dream, something that made the days both easier and harder to bear. But all it would ever be was an "if only".

Harry was an orphan, which meant there was no one there to protect him. His family never outright abused him, so no one could take hint away from them even if they wanted him.

It was the way things were, and he'd come to accept it. Oh, but_ if only_...

The phone rang, and Aunt Petunia pulled her attention away from her mollified son to answer it. The rest of her little family watched as she listened to the person on the other end of the line for a minute or so, her lips thinning. Then she nodded and said goodbye, hanging up. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg," she said flatly, looking only just short of pissed. "She can't take him."

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested, frowning beadily in his nephew's direction.

His wife snorted. "Don't be silly, Vernon. She hates the boy."

"Nice to be loved," James muttered sarcastically. "Seriously, you'd never imagine they didn't want us here..."

"What about what's-her-name, your friend-- Yvonne?" The discussion continued.

"Vacationing in Majorca," Aunt Petunia snapped, crossing her arms across her chest. Of course- she wouldn't want to expose any more people to his "unnaturalness" as possible.

"You could just leave me here," Harry suggested dryly. It wasn't like they'd care if someone broke in an abducted him; probably would thank the man for taking him off their hands, in fact.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" his aunt snarled, looking as though she'd just swallowed a lemon.

"I wouldn't blow up the house," Harry grumbled, even as James brightened at the idea.

"Are you sure? It'd only be just desserts..." the ghost pleaded, and not for the first time his brother wished there were some way of elbowing him in the ribs. Senseless destruction _was_ tempting, but it wouldn't be worth the consequences.

Not that his family was listening anyway. "I suppose we could take him to the zoo," Aunt Petunia said slowly, "...and leave him in the car..."

Uncle Vernon quickly nipped_ that_ idea in the bud. "That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone..."

Dudley was looking back and forth between his parents, not liking the direction the conversation was going. His face started turning red again, and large crocodile tears began rolling down his cheeks.

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him in what was obviously intended as a comforting hug, though Harry couldn't see how her bony frame could be in any way comfortable.

"I... don't... want... him... t-t-to come!" Dudley wailed in between fake sobs that shuddered them both. "He always sp-spoils everything!"

"What a _ham_...'' James muttered as the spoiled boy shot his cousin a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms. "Is _everything_ about him piggish?"

Harry was unable to hold back a snicker that would undoubtedly have earned him a great deal of trouble had the doorbell not rung at that precise instant. "Oh, good Lord, they're here!" Aunt Petunia said frantically, rushing out of the kitchen to answer the front door. A moment later Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. His rat-like face paled as he spotted Harry there.

Piers was the only one of Dudley's gang who was afraid of Harry, even though they all had heard the rumors of his insanity, because he alone of all of them knew there was some truth in them. One day when Harry was eight, Piers had cornered him alone after school, intending on continuing the newly-begun tradition of Harry Hunting. But with no one else there, and with his brother's help, Harry had felt safe enough to stand up to the other, bigger boy.

And now, whenever Piers saw the young orphan when the rest of the gang wasn't there at his back, he remembered the chill that had sunk into his bones, and the way the shadows had seemed deeper, more alive and more menacing, than they ever had before...

Half and hour later, he was even paler, as he sat stiffly next to Harry in Vernon Dursley's brand-new car. Harry himself could hardly believe his luck; here he was, on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life! His aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, boy-- any funny business, anything at all-- and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

Harry had just nodded, ignoring his snickering brother. It was a sad fact that around him, strange things simply... _happened_. He never knew what caused them, and over time had come to accept them as extensions of whatever weirdness it was that let him see his brother's and, on occasion, other people's ghosts.

There was a cemetery near Privet Drive. Whenever Aunt Petunia sent him to the store to pick up something, he had to walk by it. If time permitted, he stopped and chatted with its residents for a few minutes, since by their own admission, conversation among themselves was rather dead.

But this time,_ nothing_ weird was going to happen, if he had any say about it. Spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cupboard, or Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room was well worth doing so even in the presence of Piers and his cousin.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry. The council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles.

"...roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," Harry murmured absently to his brother, who was hovering in between his aunt and uncle in front. "It was flying."

He'd forgotten Uncle Vernon could hear him. He nearly crashed into the car in front of them. The large man turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Dudley and Piers sniggered, the latter a tad nervously.

Harry looked at his uncle as though it were _he_ who had suggested such an impossibility. "I know they don't," he said, not noticing the way James suddenly locked thoughtful and almost puzzled. "It was just a dream."

Vernon subsided, his face still red, but Harry wished he hadn't said anything anyway. By bringing up something that was out of the ordinary, he'd violated the most important unspoken rule of the Dursley household.

The problem being that he wasn't sure _anything _he did fit the Dursley definition of "normal".

* * *

A/N: And next chapter, the zoo! Well, it's actually done already- it was originally going to be part of this chapter, but then I realized it was about twice the length of the chapter before this one, so I split it. 

And in case anyone hasn't noticed, I'm trying to keep much closer to the original books than in my other stories. So, in the beginning at least, the differences are going to be much more subtle.

And yes, I know that bit's actuallyfrom themovie. The books are better (I'm trying to restrain myself here from ranting about the movies), but there _are_ rare gems of scenes in the movies that just shine.

* * *

_Our most sincere gratitude to_ **ADHD**, **Akua** (I have a plastic Yoh on my keychain, but that's the limit of my experience with it), **Amaris**** Kincaid**, **Aphrodis**, **Dimidium**** Vocis**, **emikae**, **Fate**, **Gia**, **HecateDeMort**, **Kaaera**, **Merle Elendil**, **Mithros**, **Secret Keeper the Owl**, **Shade Dancer**, **Shadowed Rains**, **Skeren**** Dreamera**, **stanley**** T**, **Stratagemini**, **Wren Truesong**, _and_ **XyBulmaXy** _for reviewing_.

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10 July 2005


	4. Chapter Three

**Warnings and Disclaimers:** More quotes and almost quotes from the book. And the movie…

* * *

The zoo was crowded with families, it being a most pleasant Saturday morning. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a lemon ice pop, the cheapest item on the menu. It was actually fairly good, Harry found. 

James waited until Harry had finished his treat before deliberately floating through their cousin. Dudley gasped and jumped at the sudden frozen feeling in his guts, dumping his ice cream into the dirt.

The ghost laughed himself silly, as Harry turned his face towards the gorilla exhibit they were in front of to hide his twitching lips.

They ate lunch in the zoo restaurant. Still pouting over the loss of his last ice cream, Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top of it. Harry wasn't surprised that Uncle Vernon bought him another one, but astonished was too mild a word when _he_ was allowed to finish the first one.

All in all, it was the best time he had ever spent with his family, and for once James was having just as much fun as he was.

He really should have known it was too good to last.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark inside, an abrupt change from the sunshine outside, and Harry lagged a bit behind the others as he waited for his eyes to adjust. There were lit windows all along the walls, behind the glass of which all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over man-made habitats of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons; Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the building. It was enormous; Harry was certain it could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's new car and crushed it utterly.

Except... it didn't look in the mood to do any such thing. In fact, Harry was equally certain it was asleep.

His disappointed cousin stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the python's glistening brown coils. "Make it move," he whined at his father. Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't even notice.

"Do it again," his son ordered, but rapping smartly on the glass with his knuckles didn't produce any better results.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away to the next window, Piers close behind him. Apparently, being in a dark room with Harry somewhere behind him was spooking him just a little.

Holding back a chuckle, Harry moved up to the tank his cousin had just left, his twin floating along behind him. He peered inside at the snake, pressing his palm flat against the glass. "Sorry about him," he murmured. "He's an idiot. He doesn't understand what it's like, being stared at day in and day out, like you're some kind of freak..."

James stared at him, looking as confused as Harry had ever seen his brother. "Harry," he asked slowly, "why are you hissing at the snake?"

The boy blinked at him. "Huh?"

Suddenly there was a tap on the glass that made them both jump. They turned to find the python practically eye to eye with them, not only not asleep, but very, very awake.

And then, _it winked_.

The two Potters stared at it, astonished. After a moment of sheer disbelief, Harry looked around to see if anyone was watching, a bubble of what almost felt like glee welling up inside him. No one was. Harry looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then lifted its eyes to the heavens, a look that said more plainly than they'd thought possible: _I get that all the time._

"I know," Harry murmured in response. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

James glanced at him sideways. "You know, you're hissing again," he said. "It's kind of creepy."

Harry gave him an annoyed look and turned back to the snake. "Where do you come from, anyway?" he asked.

The python jabbed its tail at a little metal sign next to the glass, and Harry peered at it to read what it said: Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Brazil, huh? Was it nice, there?"

The snake jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: Raised in captivity. "Oh... so, you've never been to Brazil?"

The boa constrictor shook its head. Harry was about to ask it another question, just because he could and to make James' eyes bulge even more, when a deafening shout came from behind them.

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T_ BELIEVE_ WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Harry spun and glared daggers at Piers, who paled dramatically. Dudley came waddling towards them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. The breath came out of the boy in a rush as he fell hard to the concrete floor. What happened next came as a surprise to all of them.

Both Dudley and Piers were leaning up against the glass, peering inside, when abruptly the glass simply _vanished_. Piers jumped back just in time to stay on his feet, but Dudley wasn't so lucky; he tumbled forward, making a splashy landing in the artificial pond.

_Inside_ the cage.

For a long moment, nothing else happened. Then the great snake began to uncoil its enormous length, unsnarling coil after coil of muscle and scales. It slithered out onto the floor as the people throughout the reptile house began to scream, only just starting to realize what was happening.

The boa constrictor paused for a second in front of Harry, studying him with fathomless black eyes. Then it inclined its head. "_Thank you_,'' Harry heard, and then he and his stunned brother were watching it slither away from them,while Dudley screamed behind them as he discovered that mysteriously-vanishing glass was back in place.

"_Brazil, here I come_..."

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A/N: Not much to say, here… though I hope you liked what differences there were between this and canon. It's actually kind of fun only changing enough to include James' input into the story.

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_Our most sincere gratitude to_ **Amaris**** Kincaid** (Actually, hoshi-tachi comes from Gundam Wing lyrics. It roughly translates to "a thousand stars". I think my muse was trying to warn me about all the incipient plot bunnies…), **angelkitty77**, **azntgr01**, **Bee**, **Firehedgehog**, **jordan**, **maleficus****-lupus**, **Ryudo**, **Sarah R Potter**, **Shadowed Rains**, _and_ **Toki Mirage** (Such faith in me…) _for reviewing.

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_

**15 July 2005** (Tomorrow's my birthday! Yes!)


	5. Chapter Four

Warnings and Disclaimers: Dun' own. Go 'way. Read.

* * *

It had been worth it. 

That was the only conclusion he could reach, later on that night. Even if he hadn't a clue on how it had happened, even though he'd been locked in his cupboard for the rest of the day with no meals. The look on Dudley's face was just... beautiful. Simply beautiful.

Not to mention that having a snake talk to you was just plain _wicked_.

James had told him once they were home that all he'd heard in the snake house was Harry pretending to be a broken tea kettle, even though Harry swore up and down that he'd been speaking the Queen's English all the while. His brother hadn't heard anything coming from the snake, either, but even Harry wasn't sure he hadn't just imagined that part.

"Are they asleep yet?" he whispered to the darkness.

James stuck his head through the wall, the slight glow he always gave off illuminating the inside of the small cupboard. "Not yet," he answered. "Uncle Vernon and the porker are, but Aunt Petunia's sitting in the living room with the last of Uncle's brandy."

Harry was astonished. "She's _drinking_!" Their aunt accepted it when her husband drank, dismissing it as his right as the man of the house, but she believed with her entire being that anyone else caught with alcohol was destined for fire and brimstone.

James nodded. "Yeah. And..." He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "She looks worried."

The ten-year-old frowned. "Why would she be worried? I mean, Dudley's fine. The snake didn't do anything but scare him."

"Pity, that," his brother commented, pouting. "Why didn't you ask it to bite him?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I kind of had other things on my mind at the time," he said dryly. He sighed as his stomach growled loudly in the confined space. "Tell me when she goes to bed?" he pleaded wearily.

James stared at him with an oddly frustrated look, one Harry was all too familiar with after ten years of being its cause. The ghost was fiercely protective of him, claiming that as the older sibling he needed to look out for his baby twin brother, but there was rarely anything he could actually do.

Except make sure that Harry could do what he needed to do to survive, without being caught at it. He nodded silently, and withdrew back out into the hallway to keep watch.

-

It seemed like forever before Harry was again let out of the cupboard; certainly, it was the longest punishment he'd ever endured, though he still wasn't sure why he was being punished. It wasn't as though _he_ had any clue how the zoo fiasco had happened.

By then the summer holidays were well underway. Dudley had already broken his brand-new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane and, on his first ride on his racing bike, knocked down poor Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches. Personally, Harry was surprised, though not at the news his cousin was breaking his new toys.

Didn't Dudley realize riding a bicycle was generally considered _exercise_?

One day in July, while Uncle Vernon was at work, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform. Harry stayed with Mrs. Figg for the duration, and found it wasn't nearly as unpleasant as usual. Apparently her broken leg had been caused by a nasty stumble over one of her multitude of cats. Understandably, she didn't seem as fond of her cats as she had been, and didn't force Harry to go through the usual ritual of paging through the photo albums she kept on her pets. In fact, she let him watch her old black and white telly, and even gave him a bit of stale chocolate cake to snack on.

James had his usual wonderful time. He claimed Mrs. Figg's cats could see him, though Harry had never seen proof they were staring at anything more than the wall.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life, and Harry had a sneaking suspicion that by the time Dudley actually went to school, he'd already be very well trained. After all, he would have had plenty of practice hitting Harry.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into noisy tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up.

Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from the effort of trying not to laugh.

James, of course, was under no such constraints, leading Harry to form the opinion that his brother was related to a hyena, not to him.

All in all, Harry's days that summer were mostly occupied by avoiding Dudley and his gang, who could almost constantly be found at 4 Privet Drive. He wasn't always successful, and all too often came home with nasty bruises that James fumed impotently over. James spent that summer coming up with ever more implausible escape plans that somehow always ended up with being adopted by the royal family and running around Windsor Palace. Harry would lay back in his cupboard and shoot holes in each plan with a kind of masochistic pleasure. Admittedly, a couple of them had merit, but even so the more logical of the twins couldn't see a way to get around the flaws even in those few.

Eventually, Harry learned that spending a great deal of time outside kept him mostly away from Dudley and Co., which resulted in quite possibly the most enjoyable summer of his recollection.

That was, of course, until the letter came.

* * *

**A/N:** For those of you wondering what the hell's going on… I had a boo-boo. One that I didn't catch for, oh, _four months_. Yeah. What happened was I wrote two chapters of this story at once, then somehow ended up posting the second one instead of the first. I was poking around on my pda and found what should've been posted, so, viola!

* * *

31 January 2006


	6. Chapter Five

**Warnings and Disclaimers:** I think I'm just going to stop mentioning the quotes from the book…

* * *

It was a perfectly normal morning. A Tuesday, in fact, which surprised Harry later on when he considered it. Nothing _ever_ happened on Tuesdays. The only day of the week more ignored by the masses was possibly Thursday. 

Harry entered the kitchen that morning to find Aunt Petunia stirring something in a large metal tub nestled in the sink, something that was releasing some of the most noxious fumes he had ever been unfortunate enough to smell. His already cautious steps faltered, and he brought his hand up to delicately cover his nose. "Oh, God," he muttered in an aside to James. "Be glad you're no longer among the breathing."

James blinked owlishly. "It can't possibly be _that_ bad..."

His brother ignored him, moving closer to their aunt. "Er, what's this?" he asked carefully. It wouldn't be a good thing if he mentioned the stench and it turned out to be another one of her attempts at a new recipe.

Petunia sniffed at him through her long nose, and he noticed her turn a pale shade of green almost immediately. "Your new school uniform," she replied, lifting one of what he now realized to be some of Dudley's cast-offs from the grayish water.

"Oh." Harry looked again at the near-rags. "I didn't realize they needed to be so... wet." Only the quickest of reflexes kept the word "hideous" from tumbling from his lips instead.

"Don't be stupid. I'm dying some of Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I'm finished." The clothing landed with a wet _plop_ back in the tub.

James snorted, drifting closer to peer at the clothes over Harry's shoulder. "More like you'll look like an old walrus. Or maybe an elephant."

Feeling a growing sense of dread, Harry couldn't help but agree.

He slipped into his normal seat at the table just as Dudley and Uncle Vernon entered together. They both visibly flinched at the smell still filling the kitchen, but soldiered bravely on, taking their seats as well. Harry was silent as Vernon snapped open his daily newspaper and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which never left his person, loudly on the table.

Breakfast, which none of them had much of an appetite for with that gawdawful stench thick in their nostrils, was nearly over when they heard the mail slot click and the papery flop of letters hitting the doormat. "Get the mail, Dudley," Uncle Vernon said absently, not looking up from his paper.

"Make Harry get it," his cousin whined, his watery blue eyes sullen.

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it," Harry said, although without much hope.

And sure enough, Uncle Vernon snorted, still not looking up from the newspaper. "Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley," he ordered.

Dudley was all too eager to comply, and Harry had to dodge right quick to avoid a bruising that was really inevitable, given how much his cousin liked to swing that stupid stick around. He managed to escape into the hallway unscathed, and from there a few steps took him to the front door. There were three things waiting for him on the mat: a postcard from Aunt Marge on the Isle of Wight, a tan envelope Harry suspected was a bill, and…

A letter for him.

"James Wilhelm Potter!" he whispered, knowing the ghost could always hear him when he called _that way_.

"What? What is it?" James asked, his voice shrill with anxiety. Harry hadn't Called him since the last time Dudley's gang managed to corner him and leave him black and blue.

"Look." Harry held out the letter, and the spirit's eyes widened as he read the address on the front.

**Mr. H. Potter  
The Cupboard under the Stairs  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey**

"What in the world…?" He couldn't believe it. His brother _never_ got letters. It was as though beyond Mrs. Figg and his teachers at school, no adult outside of the Dursley household even knew Harry existed.

"That was my reaction." Harry peered more closely at the envelope. It was thicker and heavier than the letters he was used to, and after a moment he realized it was made of parchment. There was no stamp, and when he turned it over the flap had been sealed with an actual wax crest, a shield with four animals surrounding the letter _H_. "Who do you think it's from?"

It was a couple of seconds before James answered. "I don't know, but I don't think I like them much." At Harry's surprised glance, he gestured for the boy to turn the envelope back over. "Well, look. They know about the cupboard, but they haven't done anything about it!"

Harry frowned. "Maybe that's what the letter's about?" he ventured in an odd reversal of their normal roles. Usually the green-eyed boy was the more suspicious of the two, while James was the more trusting.

But then, when it came to his brother, James could and would do just about anything, even if it went against his nature.

"Hurry up, boy!" Uncle Vernon called, cutting off the discussion. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" The twins shared a long look as the portly man chortled heartily at his own joke, before turning and heading back to the kitchen.

The bill was greeted by disgust from their uncle, and tossed aside once he'd done a cursory skim-through. The postcard was read much more carefully; Harry was the only member of his family Vernon wasn't utterly devoted to. "Marge's ill," he told his wife with a hint of concern. "Ate a funny whelk…"

"Dad!" Dudley said suddenly, and Harry looked up from the envelope he was opening to find his cousin staring at him. "Dad, Harry's got something!"

The boy cursed silently. Bloody hell, why hadn't he waited until he got to his cupboard to satisfy his blasted curiosity?

The letter was promptly snatched out of his hand. "Hey, that's mine!" Harry protested, grabbing for the stolen envelope held just out of his reach.

Uncle Vernon sneered. "Who'd be writing to _you_?" He finished opening the letter with one hand and glanced at it.

Both Harry and his brother watched with great interest as the man's face went green, then a strange grayish-white. "P-P-Petunia!"

"Give me it!" Dudley made a grab for the letter as his mother rounded the table, but Vernon successfully kept it away from him. Aunt Petunia took it instead, and read through it, turning the same pasty color as her husband. For a moment Harry thought she was going to faint, and indeed she swayed a bit, grasping tightly onto the table, but finally she righted herself with an odd choking sound.

" Vernon! Oh my goodness- Vernon!"

They were silent for a long minute, seemingly having forgotten the two boys were still in the room. Dudley, shocked that for the first time in his life his parents weren't doing as he'd told them, broke the silence by smacking his father upside the head with his Smelting stick. "I want to read that letter!" he demanded.

"_I_ want to read it, as it's _mine_," Harry muttered, feeling more angry than he'd ever been before. It was rare enough that he'd ever had anything of his own, and now his family was taking it from him!

"Get out, both of you," Vernon said quietly, his voice shaking. Harry wanted to argue further, but something in the way his uncle's voice trembled so told him it wouldn't be a good idea. He left quickly, and only a moment later heard Vernon shouting harshly at Dudley to get out.

His cousin had never been as good at judging people as Harry was.

Harry waited in his cupboard, knowing James would listen in on the conversation and tell him later what it had been about.

-

"First they were acting really paranoid," James said, 'pacing' within the confines of the cupboard. "They were wondering if someone was watching the house, to know where you slept. Then they argued about whether or not they should send a reply."

Harry lay on his cot, his arms behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. "Was there anything else?" he asked, trying to put the few puzzle pieces he had together to form even a semi-coherent picture.

The ghost nodded, dropping to sit cross-legged about an inch off the floor. "And that's the weird part. Uncle said, and I quote, 'I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?'"

The dark-haired boy sat up, frowning. "One what? What aren't they telling me? Just what was in that letter that scared them so much?"

James could only shrug. "I don't know, but I have a feeling it's important, whatever it is."

Harry nodded in silent agreement.

-

It was later that evening, when Uncle Vernon came home from work, that the large man squeezed his mass into Harry's cupboard. "Where's my letter?" Harry instantly demanded, sitting up and nearly passing through James, who had been sitting on the edge of the cot. "Who's writing to me?"

"No one," Vernon answered shortly, his face flushing at the obvious lie. "It was addressed to you by mistake. I have burned it."

"It was _not_ a mistake," Harry corrected logically, his green eyes intent on his uncle. "It had my cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" Uncle Vernon stopped to catch his breath, visibly calming himself. After a moment he even forced a painful-looking smile. "Er- yes, Harry- about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it..."

James snorted. "_Getting _a bit big? You've been too big for this thing since you were six."

Harry sent him an annoyed glance as Vernon continued. "We think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

The twins exchanged looks. "Why?" Harry asked suspiciously. The Dursleys never did anything nice for him if they had any other choice.

His uncle puffed himself up self-righteously. "Don't ask questions! Take this stuff upstairs, now!" With those orders given, he backed himself laboriously out of the cramped cupboard.

"I don't believe it..." James stared after their uncle, his jaw slack. "They're actually doing something _right_ by you..."

"Somehow I don't think it's by choice." Harry began to gather his few belongings, mostly old schoolwork and worn bits of clothing.

"Well, look at it this way. At least you're out of the cupboard!" James practically beamed, as though it had been all his doing, and Harry snorted.

"Personally... I'd rather have the letter."

* * *

**A/N:** **_Important: _**For the author's note explaining this debacle, **go read the previous chapter's author's note. Not to mention the previous chapter, period!**

* * *

7 September 2005


	7. Chapter Six

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** Finally, we're getting away from straight out of the book…

**_Important Author's Note:_** _Before_ you read this chapter, go back to Chapter Four and read. It's actually a new chapter.

* * *

Harry snuck another look at Dudley, trying hard to stifle the ironic snickers threatening to escape. His cousin was pale-faced with shock, having screamed, hit things, and in general been a great bloody nuisance, and he _still_ didn't have his second bedroom back! At the same table, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept giving each other dark looks.

When they heard the mail arrive, Harry rose to get it, only to be stopped by Vernon's vise-like grip on his arm. "Dudley," the man barked, "go get the mail."

His son stared at him, glassy-eyed, until Vernon gave him a glare. Then the pudgy boy pushed himself to his feet and lumbered off down the hallway. They could hear him sullenly banging things with his Smeltings stick the entire trip.

"There's another one!" they heard him shout suddenly. "Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive-"

Vernon was up and out of his seat as soon as the first syllables had left his son's mouth. He ran down the hall, Harry just behind him, and roared as he saw Dudley opening the letter. He tackled Dudley and tried to wrestle the letter from him, and task made difficult by the fact Harry had grabbed the cane from his cousin's weak grip and thrust it between the two to lever the man off. After a minute or so of the tussle, Vernon emerged triumphant with the envelope clutched in one hand.

"Go to your cupboard- I mean, your bedroom," he ordered his nephew, bending over as he tried to catch his breath. "Dudley… go… just go."

James watched his twin agitatedly pace his room. "They know," Harry told him. "Somehow, they know they moved me up here, and that I didn't get the first letter."

"Then they're probably going to try again," James continued the thought. "I mean, if they're that determined you read it."

Harry nodded, coming to sit on the bed next to the ghost. "We need a plan."

-

His alarm, one of Dudley's broken things he'd found in his new room and repaired, rang just before sunrise. Harry slapped it silent before it could wake anyone else, then threw off his blanket. Getting dressed was a quiet affair. Sending James ahead to scout as they'd agreed the night before, he stole down the stairs.

"Problem!" James yelled, popping through the wall, and Harry winced even though he knew he was the only one who could hear. "Uncle's asleep in front of the door. If you try to go out that way you'll wake him up!"

The dark-haired boy closed his eyes and tried very hard not to curse out loud. After a long moment, he turned and headed into the living room, James floating along behind him.

Most of the windows in the room had been painted shut years ago, but Aunt Petunia had demanded at least one be left with the ability to open up and air out the house. Harry slid it open, wincing at the squeak that, to him, rang through the room, but there was no response from the hallway. In fact, now that he knew Vernon was there, he could hear the man snoring…

James went through the wall as he clambered out the window. "It's clear," he called out, more quietly now, as though now that they were actually out of the house the fact they were sneaking had only just begun to percolate his mind.

The sun had only just begun to rise. Even this late in summer, the pre-dawn hour still had a bit of chill to it, and Harry rubbed his arms as he walked down the street. When he reached the corner, he sat down on the sidewalk to wait for the mailman.

He wasn't long in coming. No more than ten minutes after Harry had arrived (ten minutes the boy spent shivering and sending his brother half-envious looks) the cheerful man came striding down the street.

"'Ere now, what's this?" the mailman asked, coming abreast the boy. "What're you doin' out 'ere this early?"

Harry got up, summoning an appropriately sullen look. "The hallway's getting waxed," he told the man. "Uncle Vernon doesn't want the letters falling onto the floor, so he told me to meet you out here."

The mailman nodded in understanding even as he frowned, indignant. "Out 'ere in the cold, an' without even a proper coat? What kind of bloke is your uncle?"

Harry was tempted to tell him just what kind of person Vernon was, but it would draw attention he didn't need right now. "He's all right," he said instead, dropping his eyes so the lie in them couldn't be seen. James, listening to the conversation, let out a snort of derision.

The mailman looked skeptical, but he dropped the subject. "Which 'ouse is it, then?"

"Number Four." Harry waited patiently as the mailman fished through his bag, finally coming up with a bundle of three identical, very familiar letters.

"Just these t'day, looks like. You get yourself home and get a nice hot cuppa, you hear?" The mailman waited until Harry nodded obediently before continuing on his route.

It was all Harry could do to wait until the man had turned down another street before he ducked behind a bush and pulled one of the three letters from the bundle. It was addressed the same as the last one had been.

"Ready?" he asked his brother. James grinned at him, and he broke the wax seal on the flap. When he turned it over, two sheets of… was that _parchment_… fell out into his palm. One looked like a list, and he set that one aside for now.

There was a fancy heading, one that he skipped over to get to the meat of the letter. "'Dear Mr. Potter'," he read out loud so the ghost could hear, though he kept his voice to a whisper. It wouldn't do to wake the neighbors after going to all this trouble. "'We are pleased to inform you that…'" His voice trailed off.

James looked worried as his brother continued to stare at the letter. "What is it? Harry?"

Harry glanced up at him, his green eyes wide. "This explains so much," he murmured dazedly.

The ghost looked ready to explode. "_What_ explains so much?"

Harry smiled broadly. "'We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' I'm a _wizard_…"

* * *

A/N: I messed up with the chapter order, so hopefully before you read this one you took the hint (which is now located in several places) to go back and read Ch. 4. Ch. 5 now is what _used_ to be Ch. 4. Is that clear enough?

* * *

31 January 2006


	8. Chapter Seven

_Warnings and Disclaimers:_ I own all original characters. The rest I'm just temporarily borrowing and have promised to put back in only slightly tarnished condition.

* * *

They couldn't go back.

They'd meant to. Harry, for one, knew that with the Dursleys, even if it wasn't as much as he'd have preferred, he still got things like food, clothing and shelter. He knew they had no money, and no job skills, and that even if he had had any, it would be illegal for anyone to hire someone his age. There was no way he could survive on his own, or he would have left his 'family' years ago.

They really meant to go back to the Dursleys, with none the wiser that Harry had received his letter and knew what he was. But when they tried, the window he'd left through had locked behind him. Forcing their way in, or even walking around to the front door and knocking, would wake up Uncle Vernon, and then he'd _know_.

And Harry had a horrible suspicion, one that James agreed with and came close to panicking over, that afterwards life in the Dursley household for him wouldn't be worth living.

They weren't sure what to do after that. Even had the Dursleys not made sure to drag Harry's name through the mud whenever they spoke to the neighbors, his supposed "insanity" was well-enough known throughout the neighborhood that anyone they went to for help would just send him back to his relatives. Mrs. Figg, Harry's usual babysitter, had been a brief hope, but a quick knock on her door had revealed no one home.

Now they just walked. They had no plan, no destination; anywhere away from the Dursleys was good enough for them.

The road the two boys were following was the same one Harry had taken whenever Aunt Petunia sent him to the store. It curved around the outside edge of the neighborhood, passing a few low-built office buildings made of what was supposed to look like old brick, the local branch of the Royal Post, and last of all the two-hundred-year-old cemetery that was the last remnant of the town that had been demolished to make way for places like Privet Drive back in the fifties.

Harry would have passed the cemetery without a second glance if it hadn't been for the voice that called out his name. "Harry, darling! Stop and chat a minute!"

The boy's steps faltered automatically, James floating to a halt beside him as he turned and saw Mrs. Rodgers waving at him cheerfully. Her bouffant curls waved in opposition to her energetic movements as the Potters shared a debative glance. "Why not?" James wondered out loud with a shrug. He'd been keeping an eye on his younger brother, and could see that the long walk on top of no breakfast and little dinner the night before was taking its toll. Resting for a few minutes wasn't a bad idea.

A look from Harry told him he wasn't being as subtle as he'd hoped, but James didn't care, since with a wry twist to his lips his brother started towards Mrs. Rodgers. The lady beamed happily at them. "It's good to see you, dear," she bubbled, moving towards Harry. "It's been much too long since we had a decent tête-à-tête."

Long experience kept Harry from flinching back as she brushed his cheek with cool lips. "It's been a while since the Dursleys let me out of the house for anything but yard work," he replied, settling himself cross-legged on the cemetery's grass, a little dry and crinkly from the summer heat. James elected to lounge about on top of a nearby tombstone instead.

Mrs. Rodgers made a little moue of distaste at the mention of his family. Years of hearing unflattering stories about them had made her dearly long to be able to go and drive some sense into their thick, uncaring skulls. Harry was a polite, gentle, thoroughly delightful child, one she would have loved to have raised as her own.

Most of all, though, he was the complete opposite of his troublemaker of a brother.

"Here now," she called out, turning in a circle atop her grave. "Wake up, all you lot! Harry's here to see us!"

Slowly, the sound of murmuring voices began to fill the cemetery as other ghosts floated up out of their graves. Old Mr. Blanchard popped up first, grumbling as he usually did about nothing at all. Nervous young Richard, who been killed only a few years ago by a hit-and-run at age 22, was next, to be followed by wasted Mrs. Ross, her transparent, silvery skin pulled taught over her bones by the cancer she'd died from.

"Harry!" a voice squealed behind him, nearly sending the boy out of his skin. He twisted to see a tiny, translucent six-year-old beaming at him as she twisted one of her pigtails between her fingers. "You're here!"

Harry smiled at her, keeping his eyes away from the gash in her throat where her father had slit it with a pocket knife with the ease of long practice. "Yeah, April, I am. I don't know how long I can stay, though."

Mrs. Rodgers sniffed. "Your relatives want you back soon, then?" She would never insult her young friend by referring to those _people_ as his family.

Harry hesitated, sharing another glance with his brother, who had been watching with interest the traditional quarrel between Mr. Blanchard and Mrs. Ross that occurred whenever the two were above the soil at the same time. Should he tell her? It wasn't like she could tell anyone else… well, no one living and therefore in a position to anything about it, anyway. "They… they don't know I'm here," he admitted quietly. "We've sort of… run away."

The ghost stared at him for a long moment, visibly taken aback. Then she took a deep breath, almost seeming swell to twice her size as she did, before turning and unleashing on Harry's unsuspecting sibling. "_James Potter_!" she roared. "How _could_ you!"

James nearly fell off his tombstone in surprise. "What? What'd I do?" he asked, his eyes wide and, for once, genuinely bewildered.

"I cannot _believe_ you put the idea in his head to run away! I know the Dursleys are not the model family, but even they are better for Harry than for the poor boy to have to survive on his own!" She looked to be about to head into a good rant before Harry hastily stood, waving his hands in front of him in rebuttal as the rest of the ghosts in the cemetery looked their way.

"No, no! It wasn't James!" Really, a couple of harmless pranks and Harry was sure Mrs. Rodgers would never trust his brother again in her unlife. "I… I found out something they didn't want me to know," he explained, his voice growing quiet. "It's not safe for me to go back there anymore."

She bit her lip unhappily, still shooting James suspicious looks, but finally the ghost nodded. "Alright, dear, but if it's not safe you need to tell someone. I sure the bobbies will help if you're in danger…"

Harry suppressed a grimace. "Maybe," he allowed, though he extremely doubted it. Uncle Vernon was well-respected in the local community, if not very well-liked, since he donated to a couple of charities every year and made sure to talk about it in a loud voice whenever he happened to meet up with a neighbor or two. Searching for a way to change the subject, he looked around until a flash of silver where he hadn't expected one caught his eye. "Who's that?" he wondered out loud, watching the very pregnant ghost of a young woman who knelt insensate on top of her grave.

"Oh, she's new," Mrs. Rodgers answered, the distraction successful as the prospect of gossip beckoned. "Just buried yesterday. The funeral was very beautiful." She sniffled a little, undoubtedly remembering her own burial nearly forty years ago.

"She hasn't quite come to terms with it yet, has she?" Harry observed, seeing the slump of the young would-be mother's shoulders and the blankness of her gaze. Still standing, he brushed blades of grass off his pants and started to wander over.

The dead were the only ones who had ever cared for him. Whenever possible, Harry tried to return the favor.

* * *

A/N: I originally had a different plan for how this story was going, but ended up scraping it as being too… out there. Then another idea occurred to me a couple of days ago, and you see the end result here.

Incidentally, I don't know if any of you people who are sending me emails asking "When are you going to update -----?" (Exact quote for 90 percent of them) read this story, but if you're not going to say anything about the actual story, please stop. They actually thicken the writer's block when I get irritated with them. Understand this, _I do not withhold chapters_. I've tried, I am incapable of it. If something hasn't been updated, it's because the next chapter isn't finished. And I am at the complete mercy of the muse and the block when it comes to just when it will be finished. So stop asking!

Hugs to everyone who reviewed. Remember, for every review left unwritten, somewhere the Dursleys win…

* * *

11 October 2006


	9. Chapter Eight

_**Warnings and Disclaimers: **_Yes, it's an update. Take a big, deep breath, expel the shock, and move on.

* * *

All he could smell were the flowers. He'd been smelling them for what felt like his entire life, even though in his head he knew the memorial and the funeral had only lasted a bare handful of hours. He had a bundle of them in his hand now, violets, the flower she'd so utterly adored that she'd wanted to name their child after them had she been a girl.

They'd never found out for sure… before… but Simon knew that their baby would forever be Violet to him.

At least the cemetery was a nice, old one, if not one he'd particularly have chosen. It wasn't terribly close to where they'd bought their house, a new home to go along with their new life together; that distance was something he preferred, a guilty little feeling that wormed away in his gut like the smell of the flowers did.

It was partially that guilt that had brought him back here so quickly, even though the funeral had been just yesterday. He hadn't been able to say good-bye properly there, sleepwalking through most of the service and then surrounded by well-wishers afterwards. Now… now he still wasn't ready to say good-bye, but it was time.

The July sun beat down on the back of his neck as he trudged along the grassy path; headstones and monuments passed by to either side, a melancholic gauntlet of pale limestone and dark granite. If Simon's steps occasionally slowed, though never quite stopping, no one who could have seen would have blamed him.

How could any man be eager to face the truth of his wife's death?

Eventually Simon crested the gentle hill, bringing the bare dirt plot of Jessie's grave into view. To his surprise there was already someone kneeling in front of it, their hands busy with the flowers yesterday's well-wishers had set at the foot of her headstone.

The numbness in Simon's gut stirred a bit, then descended once again to cloud his thoughts, but some stray, leftover shred of emotion had him drifting forward as quietly as he could. It was a boy, he saw as he got closer, maybe ten or eleven years old. He was rearranging the flowers into groups of color, stopping once to wipe sweat from his forehead with the hem of his grey, overly-large t-shirt.

Even as Simon watched the boy finished his task, the flowers laid around the headstone in a short arc, red roses to purple violets like the ones the widower held. The boy began brushing off his hands, only to pause to look up, in the opposite direction of the man watching him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, seemingly of someone standing to the left of the grave. Though he looked hard, Simon didn't see anything there but empty air. "They're in a rainbow. See? Red, orange, yellow, blue and purple. They taught it to us in school."

The boy said nothing else for a minute, listening to absolutely nothing. "All right," he finally said, though he didn't sound very convinced. "If you say so." He leaned forward again to re-sort the flowers, swapping everything red with everything yellow. "I still don't think it's a proper rainbow."

As though he'd taken a sledgehammer to the gut, Simon suddenly couldn't breathe. No, oh no… he knew that conversation. Had argued it, over and over again with the woman who had been his girlfriend, his fiancée, his wife… It wasn't logical, but she always insisted that a rainbow should go lightest to darkest, instead of having all the colors mixed up in the middle. It was one of those things that had made him grit his teeth and sent him into laughter in the same moment.

A part of him was wondering how the boy could possibly have known Jessie, to know one of her favorite arguments. They hadn't lived in Surrey all that long, and as far as he knew Jessie hadn't counted any young children among her new acquaintances. Neither did the boy ring any bells of recognition within his own mind.

The rest of Simon was consumed with a single thought: how _dare_ he?

He stalked towards the boy, not bothering to be quiet, and grabbed him by the arm. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded through clenched teeth, his voice nearly a hiss.

The boy cried out in surprise, staring up at him with wide green eyes behind thick glasses. "Well?" he challenged again. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

His grip tightened until the boy whimpered in pain. "Please… sir…"

Through the unreasoning haze of his anger, Simon didn't heed the boy's pleas until a wave of cold so intense he thought it might burn him wrapped around his arm. It was as though the limb was being grasped by a frozen vise, and the penetrating iciness forced his hand to spasm open. The cold immediately disappeared, and the boy was up and running the moment he was released, dashing between two enormous oaks.

Shocked by his own behavior, it was a moment before Simon gathered himself and stepped forward. "Hey, wait!" he called out, worried and wanting to reassure himself that he hadn't truly hurt the boy.

The burning cold descended on him again, this time not just over his arm, but throughout his entire body. His cry of shock was cut short as the air froze in his lungs, and he dropped to his knees, curling over himself in pain. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think… oh, God, he was going to die…

But as quickly as the cold had come over him, it vanished. Simon gasped in deep breaths of air, air that felt scorching to his frozen lungs but was still oh so welcome. Hesitantly, he uncurled one of the fists clenched to his chest. Nothing shattered, despite his near certainty that he'd been frozen as surely as ice was, and next came prying an arm from around his middle. A minute later he was able to straighten his spine, even if he didn't feel ready to attempt getting to his feet yet, and he was able to look around him.

The boy, of course, was long gone.

It was an hour before the pins and needles sensation faded from his limbs, and he was able to walk without his legs trembling in a disquieting fashion. He knelt and laid the violets he'd dropped earlier in his haste and anger before Jessie's tombstone, careful to make sure they were on the end, and wouldn't mess up her perfect rainbow. "I'm sorry," he told her, inexplicably ashamed that he'd acted so poorly within sight of her grave; it felt almost as though she had been watching.

_I'm not the one you should be apologizing to_, he knew she would have said, her hands on her hips and her eyebrow cocked in the sardonic way that was completely her. The thought ran through his mind as clearly as if she really had said it. "I know," he said out loud. "I'll find him, make sure…" Make sure he was all right, that Simon hadn't hurt him. Simon would probably have to apologize to his parents, too…

He frowned. "What was he doing out here alone?" he murmured to himself. A child that age shouldn't be out unsupervised, unless he was with friends. There was no sign of any other children around, and even so, what would they have been doing in a graveyard? Beyond getting into mischief, that was, and now that the anger was gone Simon was forced to admit that the boy hadn't been causing any harm. His actions had simply felt too… personal, and come too soon amidst the stress and the grief.

Nodding to himself, Simon rose and wiped his hands on his jeans. He'd find the boy- though he had no idea how he'd manage that feat- and he'd apologize. It was something concrete to focus on, and for the first time since the funeral, it felt like there might be a hint of solid ground beneath his feet. A task to keep him moving.

There was neither hide nor hair of the boy to be seen on his way to the exit; seeing movement inside of the guardhouse by the cemetery's entrance, Simon paused to speak with the elderly man inside. The cemetery was hardly closed off from the world- the guardhouse was there more for show than to keep anyone out- but if the boy was a frequent visitor to the cemetery, then the guard might know something about him.

And, indeed, he did. "The Potter boy," the man said with a knowing nod of his white-topped head. "Comes around once a week or so, and I never have the heart to turn him out. Even with the way he is, he's never caused trouble that I know of, even chased out a couple of vandals last year."

"The way he is?" Simon inquired, careful to keep only polite curiosity and concern on his face. He meant the boy no harm, but if the old man became suspicious and clammed up, Simon didn't know how else he might find him.

There was another sage nod. "Aye, lad's touched in his head. Entire neighborhood knows it. Summat happened when his parents died in that car crash; maybe he hit his head, maybe he was just always that way and he was too young for it to be noticed just yet. He's always seeing and hearing things, talking to people that aren't there. Heard someone say he thinks he can see ghosts."

Simon hid a wince. If he'd felt guilty before about the way he'd treated the boy, it was nothing to how he felt now that he knew about his… difficulties. "Do you know where I might find him?" he asked. Seeing the look on the other man's face, he quickly explained. "He was taking care of my wife's grave, and I wanted to thank him for the thoughtfulness."

The guard nodded for a third time. "Aye, he's thoughtful. If he weren't mental, I dare say he'd be the darling of the town. He lives with his aunt and uncle, the Dursleys, over on Privet Drive. They send him out sometimes for groceries and such, and he'll stop by here on the way to the shops. You might find him there."

The other man didn't seem to find anything strange about sending such a young boy, let alone one with mental problems, to go shopping alone, so Simon held in his concerns. Instead he thanked the man for his time, and walked out to his car. Leaning against the driver's side door, he pondered his options. The most certain way to find Potter was to wait at his family's home, but there would no doubt be awkward questions, and something in his gut told him that wasn't the way to go.

Simon had never been one for listening to hunches, but… when he stepped into the car and turned on the engine, it was toward the shops he drove, craning his neck from side to side as he searched for a glimpse of the boy.

* * *

A/N: I'm not sure who's more shocked, you or me. William Goldman once said that the easiest thing on earth to do is not write, and in many ways he was right. My only excuse is that this semester at uni was a killer- it's certainly going to kill my gpa, and my head might yet explode. The joys of a professor who grades an introductory-level science course on a graduate level. I think she might be one of the most despised professors on campus- not personally, but everyone I spoke to who had taken one of her classes was thrilled to hear rumors of her retirement. Anyway, it's not quite over yet. Still two days of class left (and a problem set and two essays I should have been working on instead of this) and then finals. I just… needed to write something tonight.

On that note, I'd like to hear opinions on Simon. If things go as planned (which they sometimes, rarely, actually do) then he'll be a major character. And if anyone can guess what existing character (non-HP) he's patterned on, you'll get a cyber cookie from me.

_Power_ has been removed from the poll, and _Strains of Melody_ reinstated. _Power_ wasn't actually the next story up to be updated, but it was the one the muse focused on. I do have some work done on the current winner, _Know Thyself_, so hopefully that one will be next. After finals.

Hugs to all continuing, tenacious readers.

* * *

27 April 2008


	10. Chapter Nine

Harry looked both ways to make sure there were no cars approaching, and then darted across the street and into the alleyway between two shops. His brother floated after him, having caught up not long after Harry had made it out of the cemetery. The boy almost wished it had taken longer for James to catch up- the ghost hadn't stopped ranting about the man at Jessie's grave since. And it had been nearly a whole hour.

"Enough!" Harry finally hissed, keeping a wary eye towards the entrance of the alley. "It wasn't that bad, honestly. Uncle Vernon grips harder than that to wake me up when I sleep in." Though not very much harder, he conceded to himself, rubbing the new set of fingerprint bruises beneath his sleeves. They overlapped the last set Uncle had given him just a bit, and the faded, yellowing bruises had begun stinging again.

James growled in response, looking perhaps even more murderous at the comparison. "If he tries to hurt you again, I swear I'll kill him."

His tone shocked Harry. The wizard had never heard his brother sound so… serious, so intent. James was a laughing prankster, not serious at all. Harry wetted his lips. "James… he's just a guy. A guy whose wife just died, and then he saw me messing with her grave. Of course he was angry." He could probably even press charges over it, if he was so inclined. Harry didn't bring that up, though. He didn't like how he suddenly couldn't predict what his brother was thinking, and he didn't want to set James off further.

"I don't care," James declared, wrapping his arms around his transparent chest. "If he comes after you again I'll kill him, and it'll be easy."

Harry stared at him with wide eyes until the ghost explained. "When I moved into his chest, I felt it- he couldn't move, he couldn't even breathe. If I stay there long enough, I think his heart'll stop." James looked proud of himself, even if there was a bit of discomfort mixed in with the determination in his expression.

For the briefest of moments, Harry felt afraid, both for and of his brother. Then, almost as soon as he'd felt it, he pushed the fear down, so far down that he thought he might someday forget he had ever felt it. He refused to be afraid of James, of the one person who had always been completely and irrevocably on Harry's side. But still...

"Please don't, James," he whispered, keeping their eyes locked. "I don't want you to have to do that, even for me." James's mulish expression faded just a touch, but didn't go away. Harry opened his mouth to try to convince him further.

The sound of footsteps at the entrance to the alley interrupted him before he could get a word out.

* * *

Simon had never quite realized just how much there was to that tiny slice of Little Whinging until he was driving up and down its streets, trying to find one scrawny boy. Yet, he still didn't want to just give up on the kid. His oft-ignored instincts were whispering that something wasn't right. A good part of it was probably just shame; Simon couldn't recall ever having hurt a child before in his life, and it was entirely possible that his subconscious just wanted to right the wrong that he himself had committed. But even taking that feeling into account, there was still… something more.

That elusive sense that he was lacking some part of understanding was irritating Simon almost as much as the memory of his actions did.

With a sigh, he pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the ignition. He wasn't giving up, just… taking a moment to think, he reasoned to himself. It wasn't like the kid was going to get run over by a lorry just because Simon was a few minutes later in finding him. Besides, he needed a plan. Randomly driving through the town obviously wasn't going to cut it if Simon wanted to find him within the century.

He leaned his head against the steering column. Maybe one of the shopkeepers would remember seeing the boy… but asking them presumed in the first place that they would tell him. Simon knew he had no ill intent, but to anyone else, a grown man asking after a random kid just couldn't be anything but bad news. He might be feeling guilty, but not guilty enough to risk being dragged down to the nearest police station for questioning.

Maybe Simon was going about this the wrong way. The kid had walked to the cemetery, hadn't he? That meant he had to live pretty close by. Heading back to the cemetery and circling might work…

His thoughts trailed off as in the rearview mirror, he caught sight of a tiny figure in too-baggy clothes darting across the road not ten meters behind his parked car. Hardly believing his eyes, Simon recognized it as the boy he'd been trying to find for the past hour and change.

If there was anything more unlikely to happen, Simon was having a hard time imagining it.

This was his chance to apologize. Almost before he knew it, he was out of the car and approaching the mouth of the alley. Hearing a voice, Simon hesitated. Was there someone with the kid? He hadn't seen anyone else go into the alley. They'd have had to already be waiting there.

Meeting up with a young boy in an alley sounded a lot like bad news. Simon peered around the corner of the wall, ready to pull back if needed, but blinked at the sight. There wasn't anyone there but the boy, just as scrawny and ill-clothed as he recalled. His hair was long and somewhat scraggly, and Simon had to frown at the way his arms stuck out like knobbly twigs. He was whispering frantic words to nothing, his gaze focused intently on a spot in mid-air, a few feet off the ground.

Simon searched for anything at all the kid might be talking to, and couldn't find a thing. 'Talking to people who weren't there', indeed. There was a medical disorder that made people hear voices, wasn't there? Schizo-… schizophrenia. There'd been a documentary about it on the telly a few months ago, that he'd half-heartedly watched while Jessie poured over wallpaper patterns for the nursery. But the kid should have been on medications for that, surely.

Either way, Simon really ought to get him back to whoever his minders were. There was no way he was going to leave a child so obviously ill running about the streets. If the boy was as well-known about the area as the cemetery watchman had implied, then surely if Simon escorted him into a shop and asked who his guardians were, someone would know.

Relieved at finally having an actual plan, Simon stepped into the alley, only to freeze as the boy jerked around to face him. Green eyes stared at him in surprise and fear behind a thick fringe and glasses that had acquired a thick coating of dust since the last time he'd seen the kid. "Hey, easy," the man said, holding his hands up. "I'm not here to hurt you, I promise."

The kid didn't seem at all reassured. He backed further into the alley, never taking his eyes off Simon. Taking the hint, Simon stopped moving forward. "I wanted to apologize," he continued. "I shouldn't have yelled at you or grabbed you like that. I just…" Some of the fear seemed to be fading from the kid's expression, though he was still as nervous as a cat. Simon supposed he deserved that. "It hurt, so much. I buried my wife yesterday, and I guess it's going to be a while before it stops."

And it hurt to say, like an iron hook caught beneath his breastbone. At the same time, though, he felt lighter, like saying the words had sent some of the pain drifting away into the air. No matter how this whole mess turned out, Simon was grateful for that. "Are… are you hurt? Did I hurt you?" he asked, worried. The boy was holding his arm very still and carefully; it had to be hurting him.

But the kid shook his head firmly, backing off another step. As though to contradict him, as he moved his sleeve rode up, revealing a set of darkening bruises around his scrawny bicep. "Oh, hell, I did." Dismay washed through him. "If we ask in the corner shop, I'm sure they'll have some ice to put on it…" His voice trailed off, as Simon noticed the second set of older bruises that his additions overlaid.

_What the hell…?_

"What… who put those-?" Focused as he was on the bruises, Simon didn't notice the look of panic that flashed over the boy's face as the man stepped forward, hand outstretched.

Cold. Dark. Still, so still, so cold. It hurt, oh how it hurt. It burned, and cold shouldn't burn, but he was on fire and the flames were ice and they tore and bit and seared. The ground was hard when he fell, and it hurt and he couldn't breathe and cold, cold coldcoldcold…

"_James, no!"_

* * *

A/N: Good news, bad news time. Good news, I have a new laptop and a new job and thus, the urge to write, given that the urge to write most often appears when I can't actually write because I'm, you know, _working_. Bad news, most of that urge to write has been consumed by BBC's _Sherlock_, which is shiny and pretty and doesn't have nearly enough fanfiction written about it, even if what is there is generally heads and more above the common fic.

There's something truly wrong when I have to force myself to write Harry Potter. This was the HP chapter closest to semi-completion (I cut out a scene that refused to be written right now), so it got focused on first. Attempts are continuing.

* * *

4 May 2011


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